


Ruffle

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 21:34:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3265106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Afterwards, Bard’s a wreck and Thranduil isn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ruffle

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Drabble for anon’s “after marathon sex Bard is dirty and sweaty, while Thranduil is relatively clean and dignified, both enjoy the contrast.” request on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/13429.html?thread=24679541#t24679541).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s so lost in the overload of sensations that he barely notices when Thranduil pulls out of him. The sudden emptiness rushes up, and Bard grunts, shifting as Thranduil detangles from his legs, making no noise at all. Bard is panting so loudly that he probably wouldn’t hear an explosion if it happened right at his feet. His pulse is racing, blood pounding in his ears, and though it’s passing, the haze that’s left dulls his senses just as much. Sex with Thranduil is always one wild ride from start to finish, and Bard often needs a dip in the frigid lake before going home just so his kids don’t catch him reeking of it. 

It doesn’t help that he’s marked, too. Thranduil, for all his elegance and grace, can be a savage man at times, and the red grooves of his finger marks are patterned all over Bard’s skin. He can feel the bite outlines just as deeply branded across his chest, his nipples sore and raw from being teased and his hips lined in bruises. The mess of their seed is splattered all over his stomach and thighs, his sweat everywhere else. His hair and beard are matted and sticky, and he feels vaguely too dirty to be on such rich, lavish seats. He wonders, not for the first time, how he ever got here: one lone, poor and filthy man to a flawless, beautiful Elven king. It doesn’t make a wit of any sense. 

But Thranduil seems to enjoy their arrangement all the same. He stretches out luxuriously along Bard’s side, just as bare as Bard is. His skin paler and almost iridescent in the starlight. His straight, gold-silver hair is a waterfall over his shoulders, not a single knot in any of it and not one strand out of place. His handsome face, clean-shaven, has no trouble with breath: he only watches Bard with calm amusement. He props his chin lazily up on one palm, the other hand sliding through the sweat tricking over Bard’s breast. Thranduil even _smells_ perfect, floral and earthen, like always. He may as well have just come from praying at some shrine, instead of ragged, merciless sex. 

“The barrels should have another hour before they are ready to send with you,” Thranduil muses, voice so _even_ and smooth, while Bard is gasping for air. “You are welcome to stay until then.” Idly, his long fingers tangle through the dark hair smattered across Bard’s chest. Thranduil’s own torso is hairless, all smooth skin and nothing else. Bard is full of cracks and old wounds and a few healed scars. Some days, he really can’t see his appeal to his partner, but then, he supposes, perhaps Thranduil enjoys having someone he can knock around and not feel guilty about scratching. Bard’s never seen a mussed elf, but one more ravaged human is nothing new. 

Thranduil’s hand dips lower, skimming easily around the pool of their seed, and he fondly pets Bard’s thigh while he waits for Bard to come down enough to answer. 

Bard can see the hungry look in the king’s eye and knows another round is on the table, but he groans, “I’m too exhausted.”

“Evidently,” Thranduil sighs. He lets his hand splay flat along Bard’s leg, feeling the gentle swell of Bard’s pulse and breath. Thranduil’s eyes slowly roam up Bard’s aching body, then land back on his face, and Thranduil comments lightly, “You look a mess.”

Bard’s only half irritated. He acts out anyway, darting his hand suddenly across the space between them. He grabs a chunk of Thranduil’s silken hair and jerks him forward by it, forcing Thranduil to grunt and lurch over Bard’s body. Bard lunges up to sink his teeth into Thranduil’s jaw, digging in hard with a feral growl. He wouldn’t be surprised to be kicked away and banished from the kingdom, but Thranduil stays in his grip, relinquishing to the force of Bard’s mouth. 

Bard only lets go when he’s sure he’s a hairsbreadth away from drawing blood. Settling back down on the bed, he wipes his lips off on the back of his hand and lets Thranduil settle back into place, an angry red wound above his chin. 

Gingerly, Thranduil’s delicate fingers trace the mark. He looks thoughtful as he strokes it—the only evidence of foul play anywhere on his beautiful body. 

But in a few seconds, it begins to fade away, healing over in the usual faultless complexion of elves. Bard can only stare in astonishment as Thranduil grins coyly, having thwarted yet another foolish mortal plan.

Bard can only groan, “I give up,” and Thranduil chuckles affectionately, bending in to kiss his cheek.


End file.
